Birdie nodded. “Ah, that explains that, then.”
“Explains what?” asked Rowan, eyes flying back open.
“Naomie mentioned you were missing something important. She wouldn’t tell me what she thought it was, though.”
“Can the spell be undone?” asked Zaide.
Birdie snorted. “The only one who might’ve known was Madeleine Midwinter. But Maddy never undid a spell in her life. That would have required being able to admit when she was wrong.”
“Do you have any idea how the spell worked?” asked Rowan. “What all it might have erased?”
“A spell that big?” said the old woman with a scoff. “There’s no telling! Magic can’t be measured in yardsticks. The exact results are never in our hands. Which is why we should be careful.”
Shame flared, coarse and cruel. “She threatened me, and I panicked. I…” Rowan’s breathing went ragged, and she balled her fists. “This is why I stopped casting. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have taken part in the circle. I should have just kept out of it. I’m a mess, and I’m fucking useless.”
Tension flowed through her veins, and her brain split in a dozen directions as self-recrimination ran wild.
But then a hand on her back returned her to the moment. She glanced up, and Zaide was there, crouching by her chair so that they were staring eye-to-eye.
“Hey, I don’t want to hear you talk about my friend that way. You’re not useless. Though I won’t blow smoke—you are a bit messy. It’s part of your charm, though. Would you even be Rowan Midwinter if you didn’t leave a half-drunk coffee cup behind wherever you went?” Zaide grinned as Rowan let out a weak laugh. “What you did back there? Any of us would’ve done the same thing if we could. Do not apologize for defending yourself.”
Rowan glanced at Birdie, who nodded. “I only said weshouldbe careful, meaning that’s the ideal. But when is life ever ideal? If caution isn’t an option…” The old woman spread her arms wide, hands high. “I say let fate take the wheel and smite the bastards.”
A smile spread across Rowan’s face as her heart settled. “Thank you…” Something occurred to her then. She put a hand in her pocket. “There’s one more thing.”
The old woman’s eyes widened as Rowan revealed her grandmother’s necklace. “Maddy’s hedgewitch pendant.” Birdie reached out and took it in her hands, turning it in circles.
“Is that what it is? It got hot when I cast the memory spell.”
“I should think it did!” Birdie shook her head. “Your grandmother didn’t like ‘being held back’ by the coven. So she fashioned this—it helps a solo practitioner pull off more difficult spells.” She tapped each of the stones embedded in the amulet—fire opal, aquamarine, and cat’s eye. “Bits of fire, water, and earth, to complement her air.”
“So you’re telling me,” said Zaide, “that instead of a coven of witches, you just need one of those pendants?”
The elder witch narrowed her eyes. “They are not a proper substitute. Any spellcanbe cast alone, depending on how the goddess feels about it, but the fewer witches guiding the outcome of the spell, the more unruly the magic tends to be. Everything we do—ritual, moon phase, practice, coven—communicates our intention more precisely and helps ensure that the outcome is what we want. The less of that you do, the more likely you are to fail, or have it deviate from what you intended. Not to mention, if there’s a price to pay for the magic, a coven shares the debt equally.” Her eyes flicked up and down Rowan with a sad smile.
The rule of three. Rowan shivered. Would there be a price for this spell? When would she pay for it, and what would it be?
“Maddy…” The old woman sighed as she continued. “Your grandmother was my oldest friend, but that woman wouldn’t let herself need another person. Not completely. She paid her price for it, many times over, casting spells too big to bear alone.” Birdie handed Rowan back the pendant. “Be careful with this.”
Rowan slid it into her pants pocket, where it landed heavier than it ought to. Zaide eyed its outline, saying, “I guess it’ll help if you want to keep casting after you go home.”
She tensed at the thought. Was that what was going to happen?Was she going to board a plane in a little over a week and go back to Orange County and cast spells in her apartment? Alone? Straining to make use of what little magic she could pull through the concrete barrier between herself and the earth below?
Birdie pulled down a box from the shelf overhead. An antique Smith Rider–Waite tarot deck rested inside, carefully wrapped in a yellowing slip of white satin. It was a LeGrand family heirloom, passed down through Birdie’s ancestors, and she didn’t ever pull it out for clients—only friends, and only for friends when the deck called.
Well, there’s no getting out of this now.
Birdie shuffled cards gone brittle with wisdom and fanned them wide before pulling three and arranging them in a simple spread. With a flick of the wrist, she raised the first card. “Situation.”
A man and a woman, separate, looking skyward toward an angel, a mountain filling the gulf between them. It was upside down.
“The lovers, inverted.” Birdie waggled her eyebrows. But despite her own lascivious intimation, she followed it up with “This need not refer to romance. Only relationships in the general sense. Either way, there’s been a breakdown in communication. You’ve been out of sync with people important to you. Or possibly, with yourself.”
Birdie picked up the second card and said, “Action.”
She laid it out: the five of cups. A figure cloaked in black, looking down mournfully at three toppled cups, totally missing that two were still standing upright behind him.
“The five of cups speaks to a need to stop dwelling on the past and move on. You’re only seeing what you’ve lost and missing what you still have. Paired with the lovers, I’d normally ask whether a nasty breakup might be part of things.” Birdie eyed her significantly.
